The woman he had pushed away so that the pain he’d suffered in the past would never again be inflicted upon him. She had gotten too close. He had let her. And now she was in his heart. Distance did not change the way he felt. The passing days only made him more certain.
He loved her.
It was morning, and a gentle mist fell from the sky, and his general mood matched that of the day: gray, unseasonably cold, dismal. He walked past the chapel where he had married both of his wives and where he had attended far too many funerals. Beyond, the gravestones stood from the grassy earth in stark relief. Some of them were weathered, the engraved stones and hewn marble worn by centuries. The Marlows had spent many generations within Boswell Manor’s manicured park. They had loved here, lived here, died here.
He stopped before the grave that he sought this morning. Millicent’s, and just alongside hers, their son’s. As he had done many times over the years, he knelt, staring at the reminder of his former life, cold stone and smoothly planed angles. Names and dates. Nothing to suggest that they had once been something more than entries in the chapel register.
A hand fell on his shoulder. He started, looking down to find it large and masculine, forcing the brief hope that flared to life inside him that it was Bo’s to sputter and die. He rose to his full height, turning to see Harry in the mists, a pained expression pinching his once carefree face.
It hurt Spencer to think he was the source of his brother’s jadedness, that he alone had ruined all the people who cared for him: Millicent, Harry, his mother, and Boadicea most recently. But that was supposing she felt something for him beyond lust, which he could not be sure that she did. Especially not now that he had succeeded in sending her away.
Perhaps she did not care at all, for she had left him and gone silent. No intention of returning, no word. He had learned that she had not even gone to his London home, nor had she made use of his carriage. She had gone to the station in Oxford, and from there, she had vanished. For all he knew, she was halfway across the globe at this moment, leaving him behind for good.
The notion made him want to plow his fist into the nearest inanimate object.
“You look like hell,” Harry observed unkindly.
“What are you doing here?” He had not wanted anyone else to see him here at his lowest, humbly bending his knee before the grave of the woman who had almost killed him and the son who had never had the chance to live.
“Looking for you.” His brother’s tone was grim. “I knew you would be here, trapped in the past, the last place you ought to be.”
He stiffened, straightening his spine. He had an inch on Harry, and he always would. He also had age, if not wisdom. “I am mourning what I have lost,” he bit out.
“Are you?” Skepticism tinged Harry’s voice. “I could have sworn you were wallowing in self-pity, mourning what you could have had with Bo. What you’re too bloody stubborn and stupid to fight for.”
Bo.The shortened form of her name ate at his gut like acid. He disliked the reminder that his brother had shared something with her first. Regardless of her insistence that their friendship had been platonic on her side, it made him gnash his teeth.
He stalked forward, primitive possession and rage soaring through him. “You will not speak of my wife with such familiarity,” he gritted. “Do you understand? Never again, damn you.”
But Harry held his gaze and did not flinch or take one step in retreat. “Bo.”
Spencer lunged forward, an animalistic roar emerging from his throat, and grabbed two fistfuls of his brother’s coat. “Say it one more time, and I will not be responsible for what I do.”
“Is it my saying her name that displeases you, or is it the reminder that she exists?” Harry raised a brow, his expression smug. “I daresay you’ve been doing your best to forget the fact that you have a wife over the last week. Sheleft you, and you go about as if it is business as usual. Dithering over your bloody horse sale. Poring over crop analyses. Looking down your pompous nose at anyone who crosses your path.”
Spencer went cold. His brother’s accusation taunted him, repeating itself over and over in his mind.She left you.What in the hell? “She did not leave me. She went to visit her friend, Lady Ravenscroft.”
Hadn’t she? It was what he had assumed, even if he could not be certain of her whereabouts.
“Oh? Did she mention when she planned on returning?” his brother asked.
Fuck. She had not even told him she was leaving, let alone where she was going or when she would return. If ever. His mouth went dry, and he felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Icy tendrils of fear unfurled, closing over his heart and constricting.
He refused to believe that she had left him. That she had no wish for their union to continue. If she left him, it would tear him apart piece by bloody piece. It would be a hundredfold worse than what he had endured before, because he loved Boadicea. He loved her more than he had ever believed possible.
“I can surmise from your bilious expression that she did not deign to provide you with an idea of when she might come back to Boswell Manor.” Harry clapped his palms upon Spencer’s shoulders. “And I cannot blame her. From the moment you returned from your honeymoon, you hid yourself in the stables. Mother planned a full menu of fish in all its various forms, knowing Bo hates the stuff. The next morning, she was gone at dawn. I’m not a gambler, but if I had to make a wager, I would bet against you, brother.”
Bloody, bloody hell.
He absorbed Harry’s diatribe, and he had to admit it did not paint a pretty picture. He couldn’t even argue the facts, for his brother had provided an accurate summary. Spencer had returned from spending the best damn week of his life—full stop—and had been so consumed with fear that he’d closed himself off. Telling himself it was for the best, he had retreated, returning to his comfort of the last three years, his stable.
In effect, he had abandoned her.
He should have known his mother would not have warmed to Boadicea’s presence at Boswell Manor after a mere week. He should have been present at dinner, noting his wife’s distaste for the courses presented her. He should have demanded something better. He should have required his mother to treat her with the respect she was due.
And most of all,heshould have treated her with the respect she was due. He was her husband, after all. He was the man who loved her. But maybe he had been too caught up in his own selfish fears to realize that what he needed most was also what terrified him the most.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” Harry gave him a shake. “Why did you insist on marrying her if you do not love her? She deserves to be loved, Spencer. If you cannot love her—”
